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B E Cults Jan 2020
Hands for anathema
and whatever else happens to fall
from the sky in your mouths.

Mountains, valleys, fountains,
stanzas slung in alleyways
outside the houses of our youth.

As loud as the views.

As bright as an empty noose.

We were here before, remember?
B E Cults Jan 2020
The sky,
now the hue of dead futures,
still reeks of the need
to be photographed.
  Jan 2020 B E Cults
lX0st
I will dance
And I will spin
Until the room blurs
And the lightless gaps
Between swaying bodies
Absorb my ache
And longing

I will twist
And I will wring
Dizzily releasing
Whatever still clings
To my depleting soul
And replace it with champagne

And I will dance
B E Cults Jan 2020
in the words of Ceschi Ramos,
"art is dog **** on a wall,
art is magnifying vices.".
subjectivity is the life-blood
of that abominable thing
crawling through the proverbial
landfill that is our collective
understanding.

we dip every angel feather
in the ******* and drool pooling
at our feet because we can't seem to see
the defining line between
shutting the **** up
and screaming "what does it mean?!"
at the top of our lungs.

something like that.
B E Cults Jan 2020
the only acceptable political idealogies
are an open mind, a heart as blind as it is boundless,
or a molotov cocktail waiting to shatter
against anything built in opposition of
the first two.
B E Cults Dec 2019
I was dragged out of the void,
shackled to these atoms,
and told to swim across oceans
of pain and in doing so
I fell in love with words.

Ill be ****** if anyone
steals the only bit of win
I deserve by trying to make
me think in terms of profit margins
instead of drawing spirals and stick figures.

this darkness, again, is forgettable
and in some way needs to remain
that way.
B E Cults Dec 2019
besieged by the sky,
my lungs have already burst.
never found the words.


i still drift nowhere,
first to find out I'm alone;
I would hate to hide.


the smell of honey
and lavender paints the walls
of mornings lost to...
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